


A Year and a Day

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-01-09
Updated: 2009-01-09
Packaged: 2017-11-14 21:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/519943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Birthday fic for <span class="ljuser i-ljuser"></span><a href="http://shirasade.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://shirasade.livejournal.com/"></a><b>shirasade</b></p>
<p>Thanks to <a href="http://gamblore.livejournal.com/profile"><img class="i-ljuser-userhead"/></a><a class="i-ljuser-username" href="http://gamblore.livejournal.com/"></a><b>gamblore</b> for allowing me to ramble at her and work some of this out.</p>
    </blockquote>





	A Year and a Day

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Год и один день](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8251106) by [eivery_al](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eivery_al/pseuds/eivery_al)



> Birthday fic for [](http://shirasade.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://shirasade.livejournal.com/)**shirasade**
> 
> Thanks to [](http://gamblore.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://gamblore.livejournal.com/)**gamblore** for allowing me to ramble at her and work some of this out.

Life is all a fairy-tale.

Of course, because it's a fairy-tale, it means that things are never as they seem.

*

Pete's mother had many stories to tell him. He liked them all, but the one he liked best was hearing about how his father, the great Huntsman, had saved her from a large, bloodthirsty wolf.

"I will tell you," his mother would say in a whisper as she sat on the edge of his bed at night, "I will tell you how to spot a wolf:

_"Eyes bright and friendly,_  
 _Teeth long and deadly,_  
 _And they cannot hide their tails."_  


"Really?" Pete would whisper, almost trembling in excitement. "They can't hide their tails?"

"Oh, no. Sometimes they look like you or me," and here her face would darken for a moment, before she shook herself and continued. "They look just like a normal person! But be careful, Pete, so so careful. A wolf is always a wolf, no matter how sweet their words."

Pete would always nod, because he was a good boy; but in the back of his mind, he thought it was all _very_ exciting.

As he grew, he became a good storyteller, just like his mother. He became so good, in fact, that people came from all the towns and villages, just to hear him tell a story. He began to travel, telling more tales and becoming very rich from his stories; and his favourite to tell was the one of his mother, of the Red Riding Hood and how she managed to escape from the bad wolf.

One day, when he was returning from another of his tours (the king had asked for him, and was well pleased), he decided to walk through the forest near his village, instead of going the long way around it. He had never been in the forest before, never in all his life, because his mother had told him such terrible things about it; but it seemed to be such a nice place. There was a path, surprisingly clear as it wound deeper and deeper through the forest. It was all so quiet, he could almost hear the grass growing in the stillness; here and there, golden rays of sunlight managed to pierce through the thick crowns of the trees and fall in bright curtains to the ground.

Pete was enchanted.

After a few hours, Pete was also lost.

The night began to draw near, and the wild beauty of the forest began feel menacing. He was just about to turn back, hoping he could maybe find his way to the main road again, when he spotted a small house, barely larger than a hut, tucked at the edge of a clearing.

The small windows were warm with yellow light, and he could hear someone inside singing a very low and pretty tune. Pete felt relieved as he marched up to the front door and rapped sharply on the worn wood. The song went on, as if the singer did not hear (or perhaps they choose not to hear), so Pete knocked with both fists, so hard that the door shook in its frame.

He was about to grasp the door-knob and shake that too, when the door was yanked open and a young man dressed in roughly made clothes stood there staring out at him. He eyed Pete's rich attire, a long red cloak with the hood pulled over his dark hair, the edges of the sleeves patterned in gold thread; but he didn't say a word.

"Hello!" Pete greeted him cheerfully, and the young man blinked. "My name is Pete Wentz, but everyone calls me Pete the Red. I don't have red hair, though. Not like you," he added, smiling widely. Most people would smile back, but the young man with the reddish hair actually frowned at him.

"What do you want?" He had a nice voice, even if he was using it to practically growl at Pete.

"Well, I'm lost. And, since it's getting so late, I was wondering if I could stay here for the night--"

"No."

"I have gold, you see--"

"No."

"You're a meanie," Pete informed him and the young man gaped. "Not nice at _all_."

"What?" The man seemed to shake himself out of his shock and scowled at Pete again. "I know who you are, Pete the Red. I also know that I don't need your kind around here." With that, he slammed the door in Pete's face.

Pete was so astonished at this that he stood on the rickety steps for about twenty seconds, before he knocked again. The grouchy young man began to sing again inside his house, but much louder than before.

"Fine! I'll just go get myself lost in the forest then. But if a wolf eats me, you'll be sorry!"

He was stomping away when the door flew open again and the young man yelled at him, "A wolf wouldn't eat you if they were _dying_!"

"They would!" Pete yelled back over his shoulder. "I'll have you know, I'm a very sweet man!"

"You might own those fancy clothes, Pete the Red," the young man bellowed, for Pete was now at the other side of the clearing, "but I can smell you from here, and you're actually quite _sour_."

Pete gasped and whirled. "Oh no, you _didn't_ just say that."

The young man stared defiantly back at him, but the corner of his mouth was twitching as if he wanted to laugh. "I did say that. And I'll say it again: You stink."

"Because I haven't been home in _days_ ," Pete fumed. "Now I'm lost in a forest and this awful person is not helping me at all!"

"I wonder who this awful person might be," the man mused, but his face looked far less harsh than before. He shook his head and beckoned to Pete. "Come on. You're going the wrong way if you want to get to your village. Wait for me, I'll show you."

Pete hesitated, but the man had already gone back into his tiny house; by the time Pete made his way back, the man emerged once more, swinging a massive wolf-skin cloak about his small frame before locking his front door with a large iron key.

"That's a nice coat," Pete lied, eyeing the wolf's head that was still attached; it was pretty ghastly, especially when the young man pulled the head over his fair hair like a hood, the long teeth almost touching his eyebrows. He looked like a wolf walking on two legs. The amber eyes of the cloak glittered in the gloom at Pete, who shuddered a little against his will.

"It belonged to my father," the man replied flatly. "It's all I have left of him."

"Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that." Pete watched his eyes narrow and wondered if he had said something wrong; then the man set his shoulders and began to stalk off. "Wait! What's your name?"

The young man said, "Patrick," without turning around, walking with rapid strides in a completely different direction than Pete had chosen before. Pete had to race after him, just to catch up.

It was extremely dark in the forest now; Pete had no idea how Patrick managed to see. He stumbled once or twice before Patrick took him by the hand, holding tightly. He had a very strong grip, and every now and again he would murmur something like, "Step to the left," or "there's a funny part here, it dips down a little," so that Pete wouldn't go sprawling on his face like an idiot.

It was when the moon rose that Pete began to suspect the man leading him through the forest wasn't a man at all, but a wolf.

He had been idly looking at the rich pelt of the wolf-skin cloak; it was shiny, as if Patrick spent a lot of time caring for it, and it looked warm and soft. He turned his head a little to see if he could spot the tail and felt his heart jolt in his chest. There was no tail at the end of the cloak... but the silvery moonlight showed that there was one flicking from _underneath_ it.

His breathing, already laboured from the exertion, began to whistle in and out his nostrils through his rising panic; he was dressed in a red cape, trampling hand in hand with a wolf through a dark forest. His life could not get any more formulaic, nor could it get any worse.

"Is there something wrong?" Patrick asked gently as they continued to walk. He wasn't winded at all, but Pete thought there was something darkly mocking about the way he spoke. "Are you alright, Pete the Red?"

"Fine! Just fine!" Pete exclaimed with false cheer. "I was just wondering what... what you would want for your payment for getting me out of here."

"Oh, _payment_." Patrick's hand was warm against his sweaty one. "That's a very good question. What would you have to give me?"

"Gold?"

"I have no need of gold," Patrick said with a scornful tone.

"Um. This cloak I have on is kind of nice--"

"It's red," Patrick spat almost hatefully. "I don't _like_ red." His fingers tightened, the nails digging into the back of Pete's hand quite painfully.

"Ouch."

"Sorry," but he didn’t sound sorry at all.

"I'll be your friend for a year and a day," Pete blurted without even thinking and it was Patrick's turn to stumble, apparently out of sheer surprise. He stopped and turned to stare at Pete, who noticed that for a wolf, Patrick was kind of really short. Pete himself wasn't tall, and he had just the slightest advantage over Patrick. He wasn't comforted by that, actually, considering Patrick's true form.

"You... you'll _what_?"

"I'll be your friend," Pete repeated uncomfortably. "For a year and a day."

Patrick stared at him for a very long time and then shook his head. "That's _so_ very nice of you to offer," he said drily, and Pete felt oddly disappointed. "But consider this my good deed to you, Pete the Red."

"You can just say _Pete_ ," Pete muttered sulkily, but Patrick ignored him. In a moment, the trees thinned, and Pete was surprised to find himself almost upon his own village, the high stone wall that encircled it just a stone's throw away from the forest. He felt an immeasurable weight lift from his shoulders, for that wall had always been there, since before he was born. Come to think of it, it had probably been built when... when Red Riding Hood had returned with Hunter Wentz.

"Well. Here you are." Patrick released his hand and spun on his heel without another word. Pete bit his lip, watching his tail flick restlessly from one side to the other.

"I'll come visit you tomorrow," he called, but Patrick continued on as if he hadn't heard a word, disappearing into the forest silently.

As it was, Pete did not go anywhere the next day, nor the next, nor for a few days after. His family and friends were so happy to see him, and his mother paled when he told her that he had traveled through the forest.

"But it was fine!" he hastened to tell her. "I'm here now, right?"

"You didn't see any wolves at all?" His father asked him sternly, sharpening one side of his double-bladed axe as he sat near the fire the next evening. Pete thought of the way Patrick's eyes had widened when Pete told him he was going to be his friend for a year and a day. For a wolf, he had very odd-coloured eyes.

"No," Pete said. "I didn't see any wolves at all."

*

Pete's friends feted him for an entire week, and he had to slip away from them very early one morning, whilst they lay drunk and sated in the tavern. He went home and found a small basket, packing cheese and a freshly baked loaf of bread; he was rummaging around the cellar for some dried meat and a bottle of wine when his mother caught him.

"What are you doing?" She peered at what he was wearing. "Why do you have on your red cloak? Are you going on tour again?" Her gaze fell on the basket and wine, and a sly smile overcame her face. "Ah. You're going to visit a special friend."

"Yes, a new friend," Pete hedged. "I said I would visit him."

Her face fell. " _Him_. Pete, I... I don't want anyone to say anything about you."

"What would they say?" Pete said defensively, but he knew. He heard all the older folks talking, some loudly and some under their breaths. Many said that he was a very bad influence for the younger ones of the village. Pete didn't care.

"I just want you to be happy, Peter," his mother said in a very low voice. "But in this village, you have to be happy a certain way, do you understand? Be happy the normal way."

"No, I _won't_ ," Pete said firmly. "I'll be happy in the way that's best for me." He marched out the door, through the sleepy streets of his village, past the high stone wall and towards the forest; the basket was slung over his arm and his cloak fluttered out behind him.

He decided that the best way to find Patrick's house was to simply get lost again, and to his surprise, that method worked perfectly. Patrick was sitting on the steps of his tiny house, wrapped in his wolf-skin against the crisp morning air and playing some crude instrument as he sang softly. He stopped and watched with carefully blank eyes as Pete approached him.

"I'm here!" Pete waved cheerily but Patrick's mouth twisted.

"You said you'd be here a week ago. With friends like you, I'd rather be lonely." He stood up and went into his house, but he left the door standing open. Pete took this as a good sign and went up as well, finding himself in a round room that had everything in it: a low bed to one side, near a squat oven for warmth. There were a lot of counters and shelves, very well-made. Pots were suspended on small hooks overhead, along with dried bundles of flowers. It was actually very cozy.

"Not that I'm expecting you to be my friend for a year and a day," Patrick said as he hung his stringed instrument over the bed and took down another, this one with a longer neck. "It doesn't matter to me."

"But it matters to _me_." Pete's mind was made up. So what if Patrick was a wolf? If he had been intent on gobbling Pete right up, wouldn't he have done so by now? "I brought you food."

"I have food here already." Patrick frowned up at him; Pete didn't know that wolves spent so much time frowning like that.

"No, not like this. And we're not eating in here, we're going outside and having a picnic."

"No, we won't."

"Yes, we will."

"No. We _won't_."

Obviously, Patrick was not practiced in the methods of Pete-resistance, for not ten minutes later he was sitting on a plaid blanket with a bemused expression on his face while Pete dug into the basket and doled out food on some fine napkins he had pilfered from his mother's store-room.

"Oh, I don't eat any of that," Patrick told him when Pete tried to give him some of the dried meat. Pete sat back on his heels and stared at him.

"You're so strange," he said. A wolf that didn't eat meat; how bizarre. Also, how very fortunate for Pete.

Patrick gave him a sharp look and then rolled his eyes. "You're the one who came all the way out here to give me a breakfast I didn't need. I'd say _you're_ strange."

"People tell me that all the time!" Pete gave him a huge slice of bread. "My mother made that, it's delicious."

Pete plied him with food, and tried to get any information out of him about his life. Did he have a mate? Patrick appeared puzzled at this, but shook his head, busily munching on the bread. What about his family? All gone, Patrick informed him, sipping at his wine and making a face.

Pete, in his turn, chattered at Patrick about his storytelling life, how he travelled from place to place telling tales to people young and old.

"That sounds exciting. Perhaps you can tell me a story one day."

"I know hundreds," Pete boasted. "And I make up new ones all the time." He grinned at Patrick, who smiled back tentatively. "Tell you what, every time I come see you, I'll tell you a story."

"Why would you do that?" Patrick seemed genuinely surprised at this and Pete shrugged.

"I'm not sure. But I _want_ to do that... if you'll let me. Say yes. Come on, say yes."

"Alright. Yes," Patrick replied, smiling a little more, and Pete beamed back, feeling ridiculously happy.

 

*

Pete was a strange young man, but he was also a man of his word. He went to see Patrick nearly every day, and told him stories of strange folk and stranger happenings, watching Patrick's eyes light up. When he went on tour, he made sure to return through the forest, giving Patrick little trinkets he had bought in those far cities.

Once, he bought Patrick a lovely lyre, and watched as Patrick held it with great care.

"Pete. I... I can't take this," he finally said, trying to hand it back, but Pete stepped away with a grin. " _Pete_."

"No, it's yours. I bought it for my friend."

"I see. So after a year and a day, should I give it back?"

Pete was struck speechless at this. Patrick wasn't looking at him, just pulling at one sleeve of his wolf-skin cloak to rub at some small spot on the polished instrument. "No," he finally managed. "No, it's always yours. Always."

Patrick raised his head, and they stared at each other for a long time. Pete glanced briefly at Patrick's mouth as his lips quirked.

"Then, thank you, Pete the Red. Every time I play it, I'll think of you."

_What about when you don't?_ Pete wanted to ask.

"Are you alright?" Patrick peered at his face. "You look a little funny."

_What's funny is that I think I'm in love with a little wolf_ , Pete thought, but he simply shook his head and said, "I'm fine. Now play something for me."

*

If Pete had been in love with his little wolf before, then he fell even more when the little wolf saved his life.

He had been returning from a tour that had been cut short, because he had been discovered kissing some boy behind a dusty tavern. He hadn't even wanted to kiss that boy, but there had been something about his hair and the slant of his eyes that reminded him of Patrick. The boy's brother had come looking for him and had stumbled upon the two of them.

There had been a fantastic fight, and Pete had fled to save his skin. He was nearly home, depressed and wanting desperately to see Patrick, maybe coax him into singing something, when three men from the tavern he'd left behind fell upon him.

"I'll teach you," the boy's brother spat down at him as he kicked at Pete, who yelled when the man's heavy boots became painfully acquainted with his ribs. "I'll _teach_ you. My brother isn't like that. You've spoilt him. You've made him nasty."

"You're just mad because you wanted him," Pete taunted through his gasps, trying to get up. The man's friends shoved him down again. "Your own brother. You're the nasty one."

The man became even more incensed, and drew back his leg to give Pete a kick more vicious than the last, when something furry and growly leapt unto his back. Pete watched through the blood streaming down his face as his little wolf bit and scratched, and even attacked the other two ferociously. He hadn't known that Patrick could fight so well; it would have been supremely amusing if Pete wasn't in so much pain. The three massive men raced away, hollering at the top of their lungs about a monster (that was half their size); Patrick gave chase for a few chains, before running back to Pete, and kneeling at his side.

"I didn't even... not him," Pete mumbled incoherently as Patrick helped him up. " _You_."

"Shhh," Patrick told him. "I'll get you home."

 

*

Pete spent many days in a haze of agony, but the nights seemed better, for sometimes he dreamed that a wolf crept through his window and curled in his bed beside him. Such lucid dreams; he could almost feel the thick pelt of the animal against his skin. But they were surely dreams, because wolves didn't kiss and his wolf would press warm lips against his cheek, his forehead, and once even against his mouth.

His wolf was special.

*

"We found you at the main entry in the wall," his father told him when Pete's health improved. Dusk was falling, and Pete wanted to go back to sleep, in case his little wolf came back to see him that night. "We heard all the dogs barking. They only bark like that when they smell a wolf. Did a wolf attack you, son? Some men a few villages away say a bloodthirsty beast pounced on them recently as they were going about their business near here."

"No." Pete blinked innocently; he really wanted to smirk, but his father wasn't looking at him at all. He was staring at something by Pete's window, and went over to inspect it. He tugged a hank of fur from where it was stuck on a nail in his windowsill.

"This..." his father said wonderingly. "No wonder the dogs have been barking every night."

Every night! Patrick had come to see him every night! But while Pete's heart was busy trying to burst in his chest, it was also attempting to sink to his toes at the same time. His father was getting that particular glint in his eye, that sharp hungry light of a hunter.

Pete tried to stop his father as he strode out of the room, but he wasn't listening; he was busy calling for the dogs and the other hunters. With a superhuman effort, Pete flung himself out of his bed, dragged on his red coat and escaped to the forest.

He ran as hard as his weak body would allow, and threw himself against Patrick's door, nearly toppling over Patrick when he opened it.

"Pete! I was wondering if you were doing well enough to come see me." Patrick's delighted expression faded at the distress painted on Pete's face. He squawked in shock as Pete's hand clamped over his wrist. Pete took off at a run, pain lancing his ribs even as he fled with his wolf into the deepest heart of forest. Behind them, he could hear the dogs baying in pursuit.

"What's going on?!" Patrick yelled breathlessly.

"I'm rescuing you!"

"What? But... but where are we going?! Why are you rescuing me? Pete!" Patrick dug his heels in and stood firm. Pete whirled upon him, afraid and exasperated.

"They know about you! They're coming with the dogs!" Pete tugged at his wrist, but Patrick stood his ground.

"But why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you!" Pete yelled at him. "I can't let them kill you, they'll kill any wolf they see, but I don't _care_ that you're a wolf!" He took a deep breath and continued to shout. "I just want to keep you alive for as long as I can, so you'd better just pick up your feet and come on!"

Patrick's mouth was wide open, as were his eyes. He closed his mouth, and opened it again.

He blinked twice at Pete; and then he peeled off his wolf-skin cloak and flung it up high, where it stuck in a branch of a tree. Grabbing Pete's hand, he dragged him into a low thicket, brambles tugging painfully at Pete's hair just as the dogs and the hunters raced right past them. The dogs went directly to the tree, bouncing around it eagerly and barking up a storm. Pete watched as his father strode over to the wolf-skin that hung almost pathetically from the tree.

His father's face was a picture of disappointment as he touched Patrick's discarded coat; he stalked off in disgust, yelling for the dogs and the other men. One of his father's dogs ran in Pete's direction, scrambling under the bush to lick happily at Pete's face and at Patrick's as well. It pranced back out as his father bellowed for it to heel. Pete knew that he'd probably spend the rest of the night tearing up the entire forest for a wolf, _any_ wolf. His mother always said that Pete had gained his tenacity from his father. Pete secretly hoped that if they were any wolves in here, they would escape his father as easily as they did.

When they reemerged from the thicket, he turned slowly to Patrick, who simply stared back at him, his eyes swimming in what Pete presumed to be tears of deep gratitude.

Then Patrick opened his mouth again and he began to laugh and laugh and laugh.

*

...and laugh and laugh and laugh.

"I think that's quite enough," Pete said grouchily, watching Patrick literally roll with mirth on the grassy ground. He'd never seen Patrick laugh this hard before; it was fairly difficult to keep a straight face while the moonlight shone on the tears that were rolling down Patrick's cheeks, but Pete thought he was doing a pretty fine job at it.

"You--!" Patrick took a deep, trembling breath. "You thought I was a wolf!" He held onto his side and brayed out more laughter. "Pete, stop!" he cried, as if Pete was giving him a series of monumentally hilarious jokes, instead of just standing there with his arms folded, glaring down at him.

"So you're not a wolf," Pete sighed as Patrick's laughter turned to chuckles. "I... How was I to know? You live like a hermit deep in the forest, with a wolf-skin cloak!"

"That's because I _am_ a hermit with a wolf-skin cloak," Patrick said, smiling widely up at him. "At least, I _was_ , until you started bothering me."

"But. I thought _your_ tail was underneath the cloak." Pete sat down and drew his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs. "A real wolf has a tail, and they can never hide it."

"I know. Like the one that attacked your mother." He nodded at Pete's surprised expression. "I know about that. Many wolves were killed because humans thought they were all that way. People hate things they don't understand."

Pete nodded; this was very true.

"But, the tail fell off my cloak." Patrick shifted close and leaned against him a little. "I sewed it back on underneath, because I couldn't bear to throw it away. It belonged to my father; I thought I told you that already." Patrick touched his arm, a soft press of his fingers against Pete's skin. "The wolf it came from had been his friend and he had been killed for simply being a wolf."

"Oh. Well, if anything happens to me, feel free to use my skin," Pete said in a small voice and Patrick grinned at this.

"I'll keep that in mind."

"But you hate red. I thought you hated it, you know, because of the whole Riding Hood thing."

Patrick wrinkled his nose. "I just don't like it. I can't make it look good like you do."

"But what about that time you led me through the forest!" Pete exclaimed. "You knew exactly where to go, like you could see in the dark."

Patrick rolled his eyes. "I have _very_ bad vision, Pete. Sooner or later, I'll have to go into the city to get fitted for spectacles. But I grew up in this forest. I know it just as I know my own house."

Pete pressed his forehead against his arms, feeling tired and embarrassed. His parents had always told him that he had a very overactive imagination. He felt Patrick's fingers brush against his arm again and he looked up. Patrick was smiling at him, as if he had saved all these lovely smiles just for Pete and was now setting them free.

"You're an idiot," Patrick said in fond tones. "It's a lucky thing you have your looks, or you'd have a hard time in this world."

"Oh, shut up."

Patrick put an arm around his shoulders. He smelled sweaty but a little nice even for that, and his face was suddenly very close to Pete's.

"You would really try to save me, even if I _had_ been a wolf?"

"Of course," Pete tried to snap, but it came out a little breathlessly.

"You love me?"

Pete averted his gaze; his cheeks were growing hot. "You _heard_ me say so."

"You're _such_ an idiot," Patrick said again, but before Pete could retort, Patrick kissed him soundly. "Will you love me for a year and a day?" he asked with a musical little laugh.

"Oh, that is possible," Pete said happily against his mouth and then kissed him back, deep enough to pull a moan out of him. The villagers would probably hate him more, but Pete didn't think they'd bother crossing a vegetarian beast like Patrick. "But I think I can manage a lot longer than that."

_fin_


End file.
